


An Antichrist(mas) Carol

by werewolfkeeper



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Antichrist, Bad Parenting, F/M, Family, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Other, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, References to ABBA, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfkeeper/pseuds/werewolfkeeper
Summary: It's the eve of A Final Gig Named Death and there is no rest for the wicked.A Christmas Carol, but make it Ghost.Gift for FormalHeresy on tumblr for #GhostBCGiftExchange2020, based on their prompts:Antichrist!Copia; Nihil's thoughts on the deaths of his sons; Sister Imperator is Elizabeth Báthory; or really, just anything having to do with the history or lore of the Church.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Nameless Ghoul(s), Papa Emeritus Zero | Papa Emeritus Nihil/Sister Imperator
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Ghost BC Gift Exchange 2020





	1. Nihil's Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> As always, your handy Ghoul translator is [here](https://lingojam.com/ZalgoText)!

The Emeritus heirs were dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that, unless it so counted that their father, Papa Emeritus Nihil, doubted the significance of this fact and the importance of the proposed solution. Sister Imperator slapped her hands against the hotel room’s paltry excuse for a desk - no substitute for the fine solid mahogany one she preferred to beat on in her office back at the priory - and stood to deliver what she prayed to Satan would be the final word on the matter.

“Tomorrow is the finale of this tour cycle,” she said, slow and emphatic. A loud and wrathful tone would not get her point across, but neither yet had soft and flattering. The old witch was at her wits’ end. “Copia  _ will  _ be the next Antipope. You have neither children nor options left.”

Propped up against the headboard of the unfamiliar king bed, Nihil folded his arms. “I could do it,” he made the mistake of muttering. He should not have spoken so and, moreover, ought to have known not to.

Wide-eyed, Sister Imperator’s temper flared. “You are a scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner,” she seethed. “And a stupid, stubborn bastard if you think we can go down that road again - either in discussion or practice.”

The cold within Nihil froze his empty eyes on the study of the hotel comforter tucked around his waist rather than on Sister Imperator. He longed to look at her, but that fiery gaze would melt his resolve - and he was nothing, if not resolved. If only his own failings had not rendered their history so tumultuous, so rocky, that they might not have been saddled with such a poor compromise on the future of their dark faith.

But admitting as much would be tantamount to admitting fallacy in the Church - and they were already facing enough weakness in Sister’s proposed successor: his aide, an orphan of no real account, allowed to ride his lappets to any degree of notoriety he now held. So, every inch the stubborn bastard she condemned him to be, he folded his arms. “He’s not of the bloodline,” he couldn’t help but grumble, even knowing that Imperator would spit back a wholly accurate number of the times he’d said so previously.

“I am disappointed - and sorry, with all my heart - to find you so resolute. You’ve never had any real quarrel with him, not at least that I have known,” is what she actually said, fueled by exasperation. “He has been good to you, good for all of us. He’s our...well.” She cut herself off. “I have made the trial in homage to you and I, and I will keep my recommendation to the last. Even if you don’t believe in me.” That was a heavy thing to say, even for her. Nihil knew she felt it, whether he did or not. 

And yet, the thing of it was, he did mean it. The conviction, hard and sharp, stiffened his posture even as he reclined in the bed they should shared. He would not protest - to do so would be inauthentic.

Regardless, Imperator did not allow him the space to do so. “Fine,” she snipped, turning heel. “Clearly, it is useless to pursue my point. You wish to be left alone.” Her hand was already the doorknob, ready to depart. “I’m going to check on - oh, don’t bother making that face at me - the Ghous,” she warned.

Nihil’s obstinate pout unhinged on a yawn. Still, he managed to get out, “Will you return, Sister?”

“I can see you have no interest in waiting up to find out. We booked this whole floor and I have keys to every suite, so,” Imperator said. A grimace that might, in another life, have been a smirk crossed her face. “Look to see me no more and look that, for your own sake...you remember what has passed between us.”

He could tell that she was quoting a source, but neither knew it nor to what end. Before he could ask, he heard her displeased utterance of  _ oh, Satan, devour us all! _ He missed the door slamming behind her, entirely.

Unaware that he had even dozed off, Nihil started awake. The doorknob rattled and, coming back to consciousness, he realized that must have been the sound that woke him. There was no knock, no affirming beep of the key card - just the perseverance of someone convinced they should be permitted to allow themself in, despite evidence to the contrary.

Bitter and cold, he thought to make a remark on it when he opened the door for Imperator. He built himself up for the task with a few breaths from his oxygen tank, but left the mask on the nightstand and pulled on his dressing gown as he stood.

He meant to say,  _ I thought you had all the keys  _ \- but the phrase died on his lips. It was not Sister Imperator waiting beyond the door.

From beyond the door, a slightly disheveled Copia cired, “Ah, Papa!”

For once in his life, the boy looked more cheerful than strike, but still very aware that he was not where he meant to be.

“Cardinal,” Nihil greeted icily.

Copia made quick work of tucking in the unbuttoned halves of his shirt, spilling some of the ice out of the wine chiller he carried. “Ice,” he commented uselessly, indicating the bucket. “For Sister’s, uh. Wine. I should -”

“C̸O̸P̶I̷A̵!̸”

Halfway down the hall, two of the Cardinal's Ghouls hung out of an open door - looking less than their most put-together selves and far too jovial for their own good.

“ǝ̴̨͇̜̳́ɹ̷͔͋̈̊͜ǝ̴̟̜͖̒ͅɥ̴̭̯̑̈̈́̅̈̎ ̷̧̱̉̑̌͗ͅʞ̵̳̦̰̎͛̈́͗͂̚ɔ̸̨̯͆ɐ̵̦̙̟̳͔͕̈͊̈́̃͘q̵̜̪̣̩̒͐͌̋̈́͠ ̶̛̙̜͔̪̽ș̸̡͖̪̮̪͆͗s̸̞͑̿̏̾͂̕ɐ̷̗̺͋̐̏̍͛͠ ̸͓̥̰̗̆͗̀̐͂̈́ʇ̵͓̤̿̍͘ɐ̴̛̙̲̤͕̆ɹ̸͎̱͒̚ ̵͍̻̜̌͛͘͘͝ͅǝ̷͙̰͚̣̍̈̑͝l̴̳̇͑̽̓̏ʇ̸̨̧̝̬̉͋̈͜͠ʇ̶͓̼͕̜̆͊̚͜ı̵̊̔͊̇̕͝ͅḷ̸̲̪̓̾̄̄̅ ̸̮͕̦̩̞͌̅̎̔̚'̴̑̾͝ͅʇ̶̧͓̳̬͛̓̀̄ǝ̴͍̭̑͆̔ǝ̶̨̬͕̑͛̇̒̚͝ʍ̵͓̮̦̜̅̔͗s̸̞͆ ̸̼̆̾ʇ̷͕̄̔ɐ̴̧̗̟̆̍̔ɥ̸͙̻́̔̆͂̈́ʇ̷̛̠͍̗̮̆́̊̈́͂ ̵̤͙̻̖̹͗̚͝ʇ̷͓͙̄̃͠ǝ̷̛̜̜̔̋̔⅁̶̨̜̬̩!” bellowed the large one.

The smaller of the two made a slow, obscene motion with its inhumanly long tongue.

“ǝ̶̧̙̞̅ʇ̶̧̖̕n̵̢̮͌̏̿u̷͔̅ı̴͔̯̳́̓̑ɯ̵̹͚̰͒̈́ ̴̝͚͠ɐ̴̛͔ ̷̺̠̓͌u̴̹͑̍͝I̶͇̲̓̒̕!” Copia hissed back, shaking the ice at them, admonishing.

When he met Nihil’s stare again, the Cardinal managed to look both flushed and blanched at once. But with Nihil bearing down on him with such a scowl, it still fell to Copia to change the mood for the better.

“Hey,” he said, through an anxious titter. “Don’t be mad, Pops. Why not come have a drink? Last tour of the cycle. It’s an accomplishment, you know, for, eh, both of us.” He reached out and patted Nihil on the shoulder…

Which Nihil regarded with the expected amount of disdain. “Cardinal. You and your  _ Ghouls  _ celebrate in your way. Let me do so in my own.”

“But you...aren’t celebrating it, at all! Even Sister -”

“Then let me leave it alone. Good night.” And he shut the door, having exhausted the patience for such a line of conversation.


	2. The First of the Three Antipopes

When Nihil awoke, it was so dark, he forgot where he was. He rolled over to throw his arm over Imperator’s body and met empty space. Neither did he remember falling asleep, let alone whatever Sister had asked of him before leaving.

He sat up and found there was something looming over the edge of the bed.

“Hello, father,” it rasped.

A spotlight from an impossible origin clicked on just in front of the spectral figure, who leaned into the light.

Despite knowing the answer by way of how it presented itself, Nihil asked, “Who, and what are you?”

“In life, I was your firstborn, Papa Emeritus the First. I have come here in agency to the Past.”

“Yes, I think that makes sense,” Nihil admitted, using all the logic that a dream of something like this could afford him. “We did burden you with such a vision of reclamation when you took the lead, didn’t we?”

“And now I am bound to help you towards yours,” One spoke, extending his arm. “Rise and walk with me.”

“I would prefer to sleep and wait for Sister to return,” Nihil grumbled, but ultimately pulled himself from the bed and to his eldest son’s side. “But as I am sure this is a dream, perhaps her anger will have subsided by the time we are through and I wake again.”

“Doubtful,” One said, yanking them both through the wall. 

The hotel vanished, not a vestige of it to be seen. It was no longer winter, and this could not be Mexico because the lobby they now found themselves in bore many signs, all written in plain English.

_ St. Elizabeth Primary School presents our ANNUAL TALENT SHOW _ , declared the easel in the middle of the room.

“St. Elizabeth,” Nihil read aloud, wondering if it ought to mean something to him. “Whose past is this? I don’t know this place. Oh, excuse me,” he said, as a woman brushed past his shoulder and through the doors of the auditorium that lay beyond.

“These are but shadows of what has been,” One informed him. “They cannot see us.”

“Can’t they?” Despite the warning, Nihil felt as though he had caught the eyes of a little girl attached to the woman he had bumped into. She saw him, he was sure of it, but when he thought to kneel and greet her, she was already being tugged away.

Those eyes, he thought. Bright and piercing, boring not through him but deep into him.

“Elizabeth,” he repeated. “This wasn’t my school. It was hers.”

“Hers?” One prompted, but the smirk on his painted face suggested he already knew.

“Sister,” Nihil revealed all the same, abandoning his ghostly son to follow the girl to her seat in the very front row of the school’s theatre.

“Hm,” One snorted, materializing close by to observe as well. “We always thought of her as Contessa Báthory. To see her as a child is...strange. You know this encounter?”

“I...don’t,” Nihil had to admit. “But I would know her anywhere. That is Sister Imperator.”

“And that?”

Until now, the music in the auditorium had been ambiance, background noise. But as soon as One indicated the act on stage, the poignancy of the guitars suddenly struck Nihil in the chest. He spun as the lights came up on a small boy, painted and robed, dynamic and focused.

“That’s…” Nihil almost wept to see his young, forgotten self as he used to be. “That’s me.”

_ I feel your presence amongst us _ , the boy sang.

The girl in the front row smiled like she never had cause to before.

They grasped hands. Someone tried to pull the plug on the performance, but with only a gesture, the girl threw the would-be saboteur across the room.

Though she was never Elizabeth Bathory, her retaliation against the unresponsive crowd was  _ bloody _ . Nihil remembered the old stories the Clergy would tell that boy of witches in their heyday, but this girl was the first he’d ever seen.

_ And the vengeance is hers for as long as she stands by him. _

“She’s told me this story so many times. And, I think, never forgiven me for forgetting it,” Nihil remarked to his impassive chaperone. One, he supposed, would not want to know the details of his failings - only that they existed. The eldest Emeritus had never been given to subtlety, but Nihil needed to hear himself say this out loud anyway. “It was so important to her, that I found her, that I wanted her.”

“But?”

Darkness spilled over the two young figures, dragging them apart and swallowing them whole. Nihil and the ghost of his son were left alone in the deserted auditorium.

“We were separated in the aftermath. She went back with the Church and they made her who she is today. I…” Nihil jumped as the sound of a projector spinning into life filled the room. 

The stage, their surroundings flickered like the beginning of a reel and enveloped them in a home movie. An old station wagon, pulling up to a house with a white picket fence. Mother, father, brother, and new brother - the boy, Nihil, face wiped clean of makeup and bereft of his clerical vestments, carrying a small suitcase - waved pleasantly, if not a little unsure, to the camera. Time passed quickly on film: the boys at eleven, lazily kicking a ball around the yard - trading the lawn for the garage at fourteen, hammering away at a guitar and drumset neither knew much how to use yet - trapped in the kitchen by their father, who waved a piece of paper with an upright cross on the letterhead at dark-haired teenager who, if he knew anything at all, it was that he was not cut out for Catholic priesthood - too old to be smoking, getting high on the back porch of their parents’ house, while his brother paced and raved and ranted, then finally grabbed his young self by the collar of his jacket and gestured towards the car.

“My foster family did their best with what they had to work with,” Nihil sighed. “But I was a failed experiment for them, also.”

“Hm,” One returned again. “You did have some successes, did you not?”

No sooner had the movie reel run out, they were whisked to the very site of something Nihil could in fact immediately identify as one of those successes. Seeing as corporealness has been no previous challenge, he pushed through the doors of the great mansion without waiting for admittance - how novel that was.

“You remember  _ this _ encounter,” One said, suddenly behind him again, fighting to not yell but also to make himself heard over the thrumming of the music.

Of course that needn’t be a question, this time. The memory of his very first meeting with Sister Imperator may have been pushed from his mind after years of being assimilated to a life in which his recollections of the Satanic Church he was born into were disregarded as trauma responses, but not even ridiculously old age could take their second meeting from him.

Nihil watched his former self, a young man bathed in blood and light, kneel by the side of the radiant witch. He knew the very fine lines that formed in her brow by heart when she scowled and lifted him by the chin to join her on the couch, instead of the floor. He felt the brush of her fingertips on his left cheekbone as if its fresh bruise belonged to him, as an observer, and not to the shadow of memory.

“I was so blind,” his other self said. “I see everything now.”

Sister Imperator’s jaw set tightly, but only for a moment. “Not everything.” But the strain in her voice disappeared so quickly, it was no wonder Nihil only caught it now as it played back to him. “But it will come, in time. Papa.”

They both smiled.

“Why not The First? I trust your judgement, but if no one else has carried the name -”

Imperator put both of her hands on the young antipope’s white face. “ _ Nothing  _ came before you.  _ Nothing _ will be greater than your legacy. You aren’t the first, you are the very origin of a new dawn. This, Papa Emeritus Nihil, is Year Zero.”

They kissed.

Nihil seemed uneasy in his mind when he spoke to comment: “She meant for  _ our  _ son to be the First.”

“But she was not my mother,” observed Emeritus I.

Nihil’s shoulders slouched. If Imperator could see him now, she would get after him for pouting again, but the emotion went much deeper than that. “The Clergy wouldn’t sanction the union. They didn’t trust her, they thought she had her own agenda.”

That seemed to strike a chord with One. “She does.”

“So did your mother,” Nihil remarked, surprising even himself with the clarity. “And your brothers’.”

“Her jealousy killed them,” sneered One.

“No, she did that herself,” Nihil mused, almost wistful. “For me. For both of us. They were harpies, your mothers. They clawed things out of me that I never got back. I think you suffered for that, too.”

One stayed silent.

So, Nihil went on: “If anyone was jealous, it was them. Of her power, of her position. They were my mistresses, but she was always my left hand.”

“And mistress.” One had never been much for exceptional displays of emotion, but the bitterness of the thought came through without much effort.

Regardless, Nihil could not help a smile. “In a different way. Yes. Often.”

“Perhaps not so different.”

“What?”

“One shadow more,” declared Nihil’s eldest late son. “We’ll call this one a mixed success.”

To bookend the start of their journey, the scene changed again and brought them to another theatre - coincidentally not much bigger than the school and for a similar purpose. This one, though, appeared to be standing room only - but with only one figure standing. Nihil did not recognize it by sight and understood why, immediately, upon the sight of the crumpled mess that young Sister Imperator hovered over on the stage.

From the wings emerged two women, masked in the same featureless gold as the Ghouls who played in Ghost’s first proper incarnation. Imperator gestured to the leather-and-fur-clad heap collapsed in front of her and Nihil watched the two Ghoulettes peel himself, sweaty and barely lucid, off the floor.

He watched himself sway in their grip, pitch forward with the lack of control that might come from needing to be sick. Before he could make it all the way, Sister caught him by the chin with the toe of her boot. But she regarded him less with fury than devastation, even when he vomited - mostly liquid, no surprise there - all over himself.

“Get him cleaned up,” she instructed the Ghoulettes. “Please.”

“S̶i̵s̷t̵e̶r̴,” said the taller of the two that Nihil now recognized as Vinea upon hearing her speak. “I̴t̵ ̶i̸s̸ ̷n̴o̸t̴ ̸o̶u̸r̵ ̴p̴l̷a̷c̵e̸ ̷t̵o̵ ̵q̵u̵e̴s̶t̴i̴o̵n̷ ̴t̵h̵e̷ ̶A̶n̴t̴i̷c̷h̴r̸i̸s̷t̵ -”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Imperator snapped.

“- A̴n̵d̴ ̴h̶i̶s̴ ̵s̶i̸n̶s̵ ̵a̵r̶e̶ ̴g̵r̵e̷a̴t̷ ̷a̴n̵d̵ ̴m̶a̵n̶y̶,̵ ̸b̷u̷t̷…”

“B̸̫̄u̸̻͘t̷͎̍.̸̯̇ ̶̯̕ ̷̩͊Y̷̼̕o̸̲̿u̵̍͜ ̷̨̕a̴̮͒r̷̺̿e̵̪͝ ̴͎͝h̵̻̄u̶̙͑r̷̞͝t̷̛͍į̵͒n̷͚̑g̴̯̓ ̸̖͂w̸̭̏h̴̩̍é̸̫n̶͇̈ ̷̮̅ḧ̴̝́e̵͈͛ ̴͉̽b̸̙̿e̷̱͘h̴̳͠a̷̛̘v̴̖̅e̸̐ͅs̵̰̓ ̶̦̒s̸̡̒o̸̩,” the other, who had to be Buer, spoke up. “Ẅ̶̻́ë̷̖́ ̸̦̋l̵͜o̵̼͐v̶̥͠ȅ̵͙ ̵͉͑h̸̰́ì̸̢m̷̻̔ -”

“B̵e̷c̷a̴u̸s̴e̵ ̴y̷o̶u̷ ̴d̵o̴.”

“B̸̞̉ư̶̙t̴ ̴̧̊yo̵̱͒u̴̧͝ ̸̜̑a̵̦̍r̵͖̈ê̵̪ ̷̜̑P̶̢̓r̸̙̍i̷͉͝m̴ḙ̸̓ ̶̤̋M̸̛̭ǒ̸̺v̶̠̌e̵̛r̵̮͋,̸̍ͅ ̶̨̈́n̴̺o̷̼͠w̸̟͐.̴̦̈ ̷̝̇ ̶͓̊Ḩ̴̅e̶͍͝ ̵͓̑ḭ̶s̶̢̈ ̸̦͒n̴̗̒õ̴̟ ̸̲̏lo̵̢͋ṇ̶̽g̷̠͊ẻ̷̦r̶̊͜ ̵̣̆ť̸̹h̴̯̀e̴̤ ̵̢̾l̷̙͂a̴̺͝s̸͈̍t̸͔͂.̸̖͂ ̶̚ ̷A̵͙̾n̵̦̎d̸͙̈́ ̸̜͛w̶̳̒e̷̬̓ ̴͍͠w̵̳͘ǒ̵̞u̴̳̍l̷̖̐d̴̰͝ ̴͍e̵͇̓å̶̖t̵͓̔ ̵̫̉h̷̜̏ǐ̴̥m̷̤ ̵̹̅f̴̠̑ǫ̶͋r̷͚͋ ̷̻̈́y̵̙̅o̵̩̕u̵̹͒,̷͈̍ ̸̉͜s̸̼̈́h̵̟̔ọ̴͗u̴͉̅l̶̜d̸̤̈́ ̶͎͊y̴̥͊o̶̖͌u̵͓͝ ̵̱̇ḡ̷̪i̷͔̐v̸͚͒e̸̛͈ ̴̜̚ṯ̷̕h̸̯͊ȅ̷ ̶͝ͅẃ̶͎o̸͙͝r̴d̸,̴̧͒ ̵̎ẗ̷̮õ̶̩ ̷̩̅m̴̯̋ả̸̹k̸̛͉e̵ ̴̣̽ẁ̴͉a̴y̵̆ ̶̗͗f̶͍̋o̸̮͋r̸͉̀ ̵̦̿t̴̬̔h̷̆e̶̟͠ ̴̯̃n̷e̷̖͊x̷͝t̵̘̄.” The little Ghoulette put her hand over Imperator’s stomach and - 

It was like an optical illusion. Nihil couldn’t have seen it at the time, more out than in of consciousness, and he almost would have missed it now, too, except - a glamour dropped at the demon’s touch.

Imperator was - had been - pregnant. Quickly, she took Buer by the hand and the obvious curve of her belly disappeared again.

“She hid him from you,” One whispered over his father’s shoulder. “On purpose. You are the last obstacle in their way. She will give this wretched bastard your name and title tomorrow. Come, you’ve seen what we came to see.”

But Nihil cautioned: “Wait.”

“No, my lionnesses,” Imperator said to her attendants. “Your Papa had faith in me when no one else did. Reciprocating that is the least that I owe him. He’s just...not ready, yet. But he will be, even if it takes another half of a century.” The magic faded and her stomach swelled again, as she knelt in front of Nihil’s disaster of a counterpart. She brought his hand to her and kissed his hair. “Our legacy will be abundant.”

“These are the shadows of things that were,” addressed One, stepping in front of the scene. “But may not be, any longer. She has no patience, save for a murderous plot. We no longer stand in her way. She will not tolerate you to do the same. You must know that. Take what little joy you insist upon from this and let us depart. You have a long night ahead of you, Papa, and unlike my brothers, I am grown tired of playing at leader for you.”

Upon return to the hotel room, Nihil found himself torn between the lingering awe of this new epiphany and an irresistible drowsiness. It stole his nostalgia and returned his dissatisfaction with the whole ordeal. “I would rather this be the end of it,” he grumbled. “I would rather it ended before you began.”

But the bedroom was dark and empty when he said so which, in truth, was for the best as it saved him the trouble of trying to decide whether or not to take back what he had said.


	3. The Second of the Three Antipopes

Awakening in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore and sitting up to gather his thoughts, Nihil has no need to be told that there is another spectral visitor, lurking in the shadows and waiting for his acknowledgement.

“Buonasera, Papa.” The figure uses its staff to draw to its full height out of the chair in which it lies in wait.

Nihil sighs. His bed remains empty and, despite his exhaustion, he can conjure very few reasons to allow the spirit to linger without a greeting. “Buonasera, figlio mio.”

“You know who I am?” The same spotlight that shone on the First now breaks through the darkness to illuminate the stern ghost of Papa Emeritus II.

“Yes, I think I have this pretty well figured out, now,” says Nihil, rising to meet his second son. “I suppose, like your brother, you are here to bring up Sister’s plans for tomorrow in your own way.”

Two shakes his head. “Tomorrow is not my domain. I am bound to show you the here and now. What you will do with that information, I have no cause to find out. Andiamo, my time - as you had it in life - is short. Take hold of my crosier.”

Nihil does as told and holds fast, only to find them pulled a matter of steps from where they began: the hallway. They are deposited in front of the door to the floor’s suite, the very same one Copia had earlier mistaken Nihil’s for and been so harshly turned away.

An uproarious peal of what Nihil has, over the years, come to recognize as the sound of Ghoul laughter - demonic and low when they were too taken by amusement to modulate their voices, but never done darkly or without genuine mirth - penetrates the closed doors. There is a musicality to it, one he has always found more pleasant than terrifying.

But noting his second son’s scowl - not just the one etched into his skull paint - he comments bitterly: “Celebrating.”

“You disapprove,” Two observes. Like his elder brother, he does not much betray any emotion towards this in his face. “Come see of what.” Without warning, he shoves Nihil -

Who stumbles into - no, right through the door. He, himself, is a ghost here, too.

The suite is less of a wreck than Nihil has seen in his time. He cannot say the same for Copia and his minions, of whom he takes stock: Ribesal, preferring a barrier, tends bar - the top of which is tucked-up upon by Amdusias, who despite his perch, seems to be enjoying the company much more than anyone would have anticipated at the top of the tour. Buer and Buné, all wriggles and curves and more shadow than substance in this instance, spin around the room, dancing to music that doesn’t catch Nihil’s attention until he sees Beleth, crouched like a gargoyle on an amp, wrenching the volume knob to - well - eleven, for all intents and purposes.

“ABBA.”

Nihil jumps, though he should have expected to be rejoined by Two, sooner or later. “Of course,” he says and is surprised that he can hear himself speak over the track. “Sister raised you - all of you - on this.”

“I am not here for the reminiscence,” grumbles Two, over Nihil’s shoulder. “Only to show you that which you turn away from. Look.”

Copia, who Nihil had been trying to ignore during his mental role call, inelegantly (but not disastrously, either, to his surprise) stumbles off the bed he and Behemoth had been dancing on, nearly tripping over the table he set his beer down on to kneel at the feet of Sister Imperator who, flanked (always) by Vinea, sits on the couch.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he is saying, motioning presumably to get the music turned down at least a notch or two. “Sister, please,” he beams drunkenly up at the older woman. “For me.”

As with every interaction Nihil witnesses between the two of them, he is struck with a pang of jealousy. It makes him uncomfortable to think the word  _ betrayal _ towards Imperator, but he aches to see her entertaining this - entertained  _ by  _ this, if the inexplicably soft smile on her face is any indication - when she could otherwise be lying next to him, asleep.

He watches her sigh - always so world-weary, even when they were young - but the stern chastisement he expects never comes. Instead, she finishes her wine, hands the glass to Vinea and rises. Her eyes roll, but her smile stays.

There is no fanfare, no lead-in, but also no hesitation when she steps over Copia and cranks the music back up. 

She has never been a singer, but:  _ You seem so far away, though you are standing near _ .

The line strikes him before the song or the sentiment, compelling him to step further into the room. “Sister -”

“Non ti ha visto,” Two tauntingly reminds. “Spirito.”

But Nihil would swear on the Unholy Bible that Imperator is staring directly at him. Melancholy crosses her face, maybe because she  _ can _ see him, when she wraps up the verse:  _ I wish I understood - what happened to our love? It used to be so good _ .

It looks to be in spite of herself - she rolls her eyes, utters, “Oh,  _ hail Satan _ .” - that she is cheered by the rest of the Ghouls, now crowding her to join in for the chorus. One of them - Buné, by the swish of its hips - has fashioned a makeshift mitre out of a pillowcase and dramatically grabs Imperator’s hands to follow up:  _ Nothing else can save me, S.O.S. _ _ When you’re gone, how can I even try to go on? _ Sister laughs and bats the demon away so she can reclaim her spot on the couch and another glass of wine.

“Lost without me,” Nihil murmurs to himself.

“Did you say something?” asks Two.

“I did not,” Nihil denies.

“Buffo, sembravo come se -”

“I said  _ nothing _ ,” insists Nihil with more force to put an end to it. “And I have seen enough. I can guess at its conclusion. She will leave, before long. Copia will allow it to devolve from there.”

“You think he enjoys himself too much,” baits Two.

Nihil turns his back on the scene, nods in agreement. “Like you did.”

Two beats the end of his staff against the floor. “Ipocrita!” he spits. “Like  _ you _ . All your sons, condemned for your sins.”

The truth, the memory of the past bites. But on instinct, Nihil tries to say, “He is not my -” 

Movement in the corner of his vision hushes the lie. The tableau is changed, lights dimmed, most of the Ghouls in a moderately subdued pile on and around the couch while Copia waltzes Sister Imperator around the room to Behemoth’s guitar serenade of “Fernando”.

“I never see you and Papa dance like this, anymore,” he is telling her.

“You were never supposed to see it, in the first place,” Imperator points out.

Copia chooses humming along over a retort.  _ Though we never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret. If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend... _

“I hear him in you,” Imperator sighs. “Even in spite of the sentimentality.”

“I think maybe you are too hard on him,” suggests Copia. (Nihil is almost afronted by it. He does not need, does not want this defense.) “His music was plenty sentimental.”

“He’s too hard on  _ you _ ,” Imperator argues back. “And he sang about getting railed by The Devil.”

Some of the Ghouls snicker. “L̸̩̙͓̑̓̎̑̔͘i̴̳̭͗͛̑̔̎͐̏̈́̾̈k̸̡̫̰̊̐͐̈̋͠e ̶̥͆̓͒̀̽̉͝p̷̓̆̄̿̆̔̕͘̕a̴͚͛̎̕p̸͓̜̈́̋͜a̷̝̥̋̑̓̇͊̚͝,̶̓̂ ̴̛̛͕̎͐̓̓́̅̍̚ͅl̶͛̈́̕͠i̸̔̆k̸̟͊͐̅̚̕e̸̹̿̂̈̂̅̇͋̒͘̚ ̸͍̥͔̓́̈͒̂͘s̵̤̳͂͑̔̋̈́̓̀o̵͍̱̐̈́̐̒̎͗͝n̸̛̗̎̇͗͐̽͆̽͛!” Beleth sizzles. 

Behind Nihil, Two also laughs, a low and scornful sound.

“Mama,” Copia says, a soft challenge. His counterpoint: “ _ You go down just like holy Mary _ …”

Imperator takes Copia’s face between her hands. She doesn’t look angry. She never regards the boy with anger. “ _ That _ is his legacy, a song about getting stoned off his ass.”

It hurts that Nihil isn’t sure if she means that. If ever there was a time to be sure she could feel his presence amongst them, he wishes it was now. “It’s not,” he says, though it is useless to do so.

But Copia has him covered: “ _ Your beauty _ never, ever scared me.”

They’re still dancing, but Imperator slows and over Copia’s shoulder, Nihil catches her trying to chew a little smile off her lips.

“You’ll have your ascension tomorrow,” she says, but her voice, the guitar, the ambient sounds of movement in the room are suddenly echoes. The lamplight dims. “I’ll see to it.”

Two takes a step forward so he is no longer behind but next to his father in growing darkness - but not silence.

Another distant echo from the buzz of an amp, the low roar of a stadium audience, and Copia’s voice booming over the microphone, giving the same tiny speech he’s given every night as the thunderous roll of drums kick in:  _ This is a song that Papa used to sing _ .

Except - that’s not what he says. Not this time. 

“This is a song that  _ my papa _ used to sing.”

Nihil is silent under the glare of his second son’s ghost. 

“You heard what she said.” Two speaks of the threat of Copia’s impending Antipapal rites. “You know what she does. Has done. Will do.”

“I know what I have heard.” Nihil finds what he assumes to be the shape of his bed in the pitch black and takes a heavy seat. “Send your brother in. I am exhausted.”

“The Third, more mercurial in nature, shall appear in his own good time,” Two’s voice, like his grim visage, fades. “Buonanotte, Papa. A presto.”


	4. The Last of the Late Antipopes

And when it’s time for Nihil to come back to consciousness, he will be brought there by the same light shone down on his two eldest children. It intends to bedevil him before he is ready to face it, so he will need to be quick to come to terms with the brightness that beats down.

He will need to sit up of his own volition, because the new spectre who haunts hotel room will not speak to him. It will wait, hooded in purple and gold brocade, just on the edge of the spot.

Nihil must speak first if he has any desire to proceed with the last of his night’s events: “You’ve come, finally. You were not as prompt as your brothers. I admit, that surprises me. I thought you to be more eager,” he’ll say to fill the silence. “I am suspicious of the perspective you will provide, but am prepared to bear your company. I am now in the presence of my third born?”

The shroud of Papa Emeritus III will bob forward to acknowledge his father’s greeting, accompanied by an abrasive sound beneath the hood. A white hand may reach out and motion for Nihil’s arousal to the moment. He might respond to it by following the thing he used to think of as his youngest son, once upon a time.

“You have something to say about the future,” Nihil can guess. “You always did. Let us get on with it. I have much to think on without your input.”

Scarcely will it seem that they enter tomorrow’s - or the next day’s - venue so much as it is going to spring up around them. In a snap of Three’s gloved fingers, they can be backstage, observing the Ghouls, piled not unlike they had been yesterday, though less comfortably so than pensive.

“W̴e̸ ̴d̶o̷n̴’̴t̴ ̷k̴n̶o̴w̷ ̵m̶u̶c̵h̴ ̸a̵b̴o̶u̶t̸ ̷i̷t̸,” Vinea will tell the rest of them, with her almost human arms folded around her chest. “W̴e̵ ̴o̴n̵l̵y̸ ̴k̶n̷o̶w̸ ̵t̸h̷a̴t̶ ̷h̴e̷’̴s̴ ̸d̴e̵a̴d̶.”

“L̴a̴s̸t̸ ̴n̴i̸g̸h̸t̵,” the large Behemoth will confirm.

“T̴̻͛̓̇̿̉̉̓̓̊͝h̵̤̜̲̎o̸͇̗̒̓̔͛͆̈́̒̋̽̚ų̸̟g̷̖̮̟̃̿͂̈́̋͒͐̓̑̀̇h̶͓͍̓̏̃̃̅̀͆̕͘͠͠t̶̢̛̝͈̯̦̽̃̀͒̌͌͑̕ ̶̹̖̍̾ȟ̵͍͛̃̽̚e̴͙͛̓̇̉͋’̷̨̛̱̄̃̔̉͘̕ď̴͓̅̏͆͑̚͠ ̴̨̞̜͂̎̆͌͗̅̋̃͘͝͝n̶͕͚̔́͗ȩ̴̞͐͂͆͆̓̚v̸̖͓̑̇̈́̔ẹ̸̦͆͆r̴̬̩͑̀̏̚ ̸͎̬̱́͛͒̋̎͝d̶̠̱͍͒͛͌̓̑͘i̷̧̟̣͕̾̐͋̌͒͌e̵̟̒͐̆͠,” will come Beleth’s hiss. 

An inhuman mumble should ripple through all of them - agreement.

Amdusias will ask: “Ï̴t̴̎’̶͛̒ll̷̍̌͠ ̶̝͙͒̂b̶̐e̸̢͍̝̋̓ ̷å̴̤͔ ̶̗͉̫͛̔q̴̔ȗ̴̹͗i̸̙͌͜e̸̼̔͝ͅt̸̙͈̩͛̈́̔ ̷̢̬̆͋č̴̙̰̹̐̊e̴̻͙͆̒̎r̸e̵̔̊m̷͙̎ơ̶̆͝n̷͙̝̙̂͘y̵̧͠,̴̗̒̃͝ ̸̛͍͈̑̎t̸͚͙̬̉̑̊ĥ̶͖̟͗e̷ń̷̢̥,̵̢̞͠ ̴̩̒w̶̧͗o̷͠n̸͈̐ͅ’̴̲͛̈̐t̶̏ ̶̧̏̇i̴̋ṫ̸̮̈́?̶͖̩̣̽̋͘ ̵̻͔̦̽͆̈ ̷I̵̛̮͊͌f̴̏̇ ̴h̶͎͂̃e̵̦̐̌̈ ̵̩̈́̓w̸o̵̠̓̆́n̶̬̚’̶͓̭̃̓t̶̖͝ ̵̿̇g̷̥̳̐̆̓o,̶̨̙̘̑̐ ̸̟͋͂̄t̶̘̑ḥ̴̾͑̃e̸̲̐̾͒n̶̤̣͉̑̾ n̴̠̂̽̋é̴í̷̳̞̭̊̄t̵h̵̭̙̐͜ę̷̨̼̂̚̚r̵͒̉̚ ̸͛̈́w̷͍͠i̵͈̊̈́l̵͋l̵̲̜̉̌ ̴̈̎ẉ̸̣̓̀e̸.”

“I̸̫͊ ̸̱́w̵̦͠ŏ̷̤u̶͎͘l̸̖̂d̴̝̔n̵̼͊’̵͍͂t̶̳͠ ̴̨̈́m̶̨͗ĩ̷̪n̷̾͜d̵̨̚ ̶̮͐g̸̘͑ò̷̪i̴̬̇n̷͜g̸̩̊,” Buer might offer. The carved-out space for her eyes will gleam. “C̷̨͝ỏ̶̮n̵̲͝ṡ̴̗ī̵̘d̷̙͠e̵̞͐r̸̖̎i̷͠ͅṅ̷̥g̷̩̋ ̶̧͂t̸͓͛h̷̛͎ǎ̴͚t̷̘͐  _ ̵͍̕l̸͕̽ủ̵̖n̵̡̂c̴͔͆ẖ̷̐  _ ̸̺m̷̬̍a̴̳͑y̷̟̓ ̵̧̓b̸͇͌e̵̜̋ ̷̟̓p̷̺͛ṛ̷̚o̸̮͋v̵͔͑i̷̩͝d̷̺͠e̵͉͆d̶̥̽.”

There will be laughter, dark and merciless, like nothing Nihil has ever heard. He will be frightened.

Terrifying though the vignette plays out, it will also be short-lived. Three will have plenty more to waste his father’s night on, grabbing him by the sleeve of his gown and tugging him onwards.

The harsh light of mid-afternoon can be much worse than an unexpected lighting cue, Nihil will soon find. He might want to cower from it, but truly what will be his bane is the conversation a few paces away from where they stand, at the end of the barricade, outside the venue. The line will be predictably long and the crowd might be particularly chatty over dismal matters. 

An older woman will be scrolling through her phone. “Well,” she’ll sigh. “They’ve got the hat up on clearance now. I wasn’t going to pay eighty for it, but, I don’t know. Thirty’s not  _ that _ bad. Just to round out the collection.”

“Nope. Not worth it,” her young gothling companion probably wants to insist. “He was creepy. And  _ mean _ .  _ So _ mean to Papa. I hated him.”

“A disappointment. Everyone hated him,” the punk behind them could chime in. “He seemed so cool, so scary in Liseberg, you know? But what a joke.”

This will cause Nihil to think to himself,  _ My life tends that way, now _ , and shudder from head to foot to see the unnatural tilt of Three’s covered head. As if he would be able to hear his father’s very thoughts. As if he would know.

“Is there no one here who feels emotion towards this death?” But Nihil will regret his phrasing when he sees shadowed black lips split into a grin.

So maybe before they leave the scene behind, Nihil’s attention will be again drawn to the din of the crowd, the hum of equipment, and the screech of the microphone, stabbing at him from behind. “Too bad about what happened to poor, old Papa, huh?” a familiar amplified voice will growl, all sneer and no sympathy. “But there can only be  _ one _ . And  _ faith _ . Is.  _ Mine _ .” And the cheers will be deafening.

Even without a face to look into, Nihil can imagine Three’s daring, expectant expression. He will want validation - of course he will - for the display, for the logical conclusion of the same warnings given by the First and Second.

Nihil will not give it to him, no matter how his heart will break to know what yet may come.

Instead, he will say, “You reject tenderness, now, like your brothers. But they still allowed me to witness some. I think you can do the same.”

Three, of course, will be able to do anything he likes and he will so be delighted to usher his father on, to bring him home, to raise the stained glass and the stone of the Ministry around them.

Nihil will say, “I see where this is going.”

Two Sisters of Sin, donning pointed habits and veils of rich blues and coppers, will stroll through the halls.

“Papa says they won’t be bringing the old relic along for the Veneration,” one of them will remark. “Out with the old, in with the new, right? That’s what he gets, the old bastard. He deserves to be stuffed up in a sarcophagus and locked away forever. I’m glad she killed him.”

“I guess he was the last obstacle in her way,” the other will answer. “She’s always wanted the Church for herself. And now I see why. Papa’s everything she said he’d be.” Then, there will be a pause. “Do you really think she killed -?”

“It’s what everyone thinks. And she’s not saying any different -”

“She’s not really saying  _ anything _ , in that regard.”

“- But even if she did, I don’t think anyone would believe her. Everyone remembers what happened to the others. That’s how they’ll remember this, too.”

“What a legacy!”

The two nuns will walk away laughing and Nihil will not be able to breathe, but there will be no tank from which to draw oxygen, no relief in this practice run of what he will have begun to understand is his imminent incorporeality.

There will be another shove, launching him through the crypt and finally on towards the tenderness he wanted.

Sister Imperator’s back will be to the two ghostly intruders, her body will be blocking enough of the glass coffin she leans upon as to obscure its contents, but by now, this is a scene that Nihil will have come to expect.

He will disregard all previous insistence that he can be neither seen nor heard nor felt in this nightmarish procession through his own life. He will set his hand on Imperator’s shoulder, find it trembling, and realize that she is crying. It will be the first time he has ever seen her do so.

And in a whisper surely meant for no one, as by all rights the room should be empty to her, she’ll say, “This is  _ not  _ what I wanted.” Her hand will raise, but before she can only just brush against his fingers - 

Nihil will be yanked from her side and thrown against the wall of the columbarium. The hood of Three’s robe will have dropped now, revealing something Nihil could have guessed at. Prone on display, a severed head will not need much support to keep it flush against a body. In action, though, five or six haphazard stitches will not seem like nearly enough.

“Do you understand, now, Papa?” Three’s voice will be thick, broken and wet.

But Nihil will say, “More than I think you intend for me to. You, even more than your brothers, wish to torment me. But I accept it. Whether these are the shadows of things that Will be or May be only, I have lived a life that should conclude as such. But why show me all of this if I am past all hope?”

When Three laughs, his throat will split. “So that you die knowing that  _ we _ are your legacy, the sum of your miserable parts. A blind disciple, an apathetic lecher, and -”

“A failure?” Nihil will interject. And while blood will boil and ooze from Three’s neck as he struggles to not be able to scream, Nihil will go on to agree with his own assessment. “I  _ have  _ failed, as a Papa and a father. If I had known about Copia -”

Three will froth. “You knew that  _ we _ were your sons! What difference do you think that made to you!”

Nihil will place a hand on his third-born’s cold, damp cheek. “But you weren’t hers.”

And the look in Three’s eyes will be rabid. “ _ I _ knew about the rat,” he will bark. “She killed us to keep her secret, to preserve her plans. What do you think she’ll do to you if you say you know, too?”

“I think I would like to find out,” Nihil will decide.

Three’s laughter will be choking and miserable. “ _ Father, waiting in tomb _ . Go on, Papa. We look forward to your eternal company.”


	5. The End Of It

Nihil put his arms up, bracing for a final push that never came. Cautiously, he opened one eye. “Oh.”

The bed he sat up from was his own - or, well, the hotel’s, but the very one he remembered last trying to find peace in before the spiritual harassment commenced. 

Warm, natural light peeked through the slot in the heavy curtains and, after calming the fluttering of his heart with a few breaths from his mask, he moved to welcome the sun, the Morning Star, into the room.

In truth, he could have put himself right back to sleep, but it was a new day! And there was much to be done, on this, the - 

“I have no idea what day it is,” he muttered to himself. Without Sister Imperator to roust him and give him a preview of his itinerary, there was no way to tell how long he had been waylaid by his ghostly sons. “Surely she must be nearby…”

Without Imperator’s aide, Nihil also did not bother to dress, other than to step into his slippers, before making towards the door. Neither did he bother to look where he was going and nearly tripped over the front wheel of the tricycle trying to barrel past him.

Copia looked equal parts respectable - in his somber black cassock - and ridiculous - jumping up from the trick and attempting to kick it out of the way. (It crashed into a small console table in the hall.) He let out a nervous laugh. “Eh, heheh, sorry, Papa. Good morning?”

“Cardinal! What morning is it?” Nihil asked.

“What?”

“What’s today, my son?” he said again.

“Today, Papa? Why, it’s the day of the last Ritual.”

“The day of the last Ritual!” Nihil exclaimed. “I haven’t missed it. Your brothers managed only to steal one more night from me. But, of course they did.”

Copia knitted his fingers together, wrung his hands, unsure of where this was going. “Of...course they did.” 

And dear heart alive, how he started when Nihil grasped him by either shoulder. “But I will waste no more time. Copia, tonight, after the concert. If the offer is still on the table, I would like us to celebrate.”

Dumbstruck as he was by this, Copia’s nod began slowly then grew in enthusiasm. “But, of course! Hey! Papa, that would be great -”

“If your mother allows it, of course,” Nihil added. He held his son in place a moment longer. “She was right about you. I am sorry it took me so long to say.” Before Copia could gape any wider, though, Nihil released him to say, “Go! Tell your Ghouls that I will see you all later tonight!”

Cheer won over nerves and Copia mounted his tricycle and rode off in spirits nearly as high as his father’s.

“Allow for what?” said a voice from behind.

Nihil spun and looked down on Sister Imperator, also already dressed to perfection at such an early hour. Her expression was skeptical, but with her she carried a plate of breakfast foods that did not, even at first glance, appear to be to her own taste. Nihil beamed.

“Sister. Is that for me?”

“Papa.” Her eyes coldly flickered over him, then to the small stack of ham and pancakes. “Possibly.”

Whether it was or not, Nihil transferred the plate from her hands to the console their adult son had just wrestled his tricycle away from. Her lips parted for an argument, but he pulled her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss so hard it stung.

Her eyes narrowed when she leaned back, but she did not break from his embrace. “What’s wrong?”

“I was so blind,” Nihil thought to say. “I see everything now.”

That softened the hard line Imperator’s mouth had set into. She blinked, averted her gaze upwards, so not to look directly at him while she staved off the emotion. “Well. Satan damn us, every one,” she tried to say cooly. “What could have brought this about?”

“ _ You _ are my Church,” Nihil went on. “And so I believe what you do. Copia will make a fine Past, Present, and Future for all of us. It is a legacy we can be proud of.”

Imperator traced the faded shade of Nihil’s skull paint down his cheek. “That’s what I wanted. Now, stop.” Abruptly, she swatted at him so he would let go and she could wipe eyes without drawing attention. “Go eat your ham.”

Nihil stole one last kiss. “And then, we will make our son the next Antipope.”


End file.
